


you've brought the orchestra

by icarusandtheson



Series: encore [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Class Differences, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Relationship, vague political setting, vague work party setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusandtheson/pseuds/icarusandtheson
Summary: Alex attends a party, and struggles for a variety of reasons that begin and end with Washington.





	you've brought the orchestra

**Author's Note:**

> For Hobbes, who disapproves of every story I add to this series, but reads them and loves them regardless. And for you, if you're still reading this series when it took 5k just for the main love interest to show up.

Light spills out from the lobby as people stream in, all golden and bright against the otherwise gray evening. It makes the cold ache even worse, that promise of warmth, and Alex pulls his coat more tightly around him as he and Washington make their short, bitter trek through the night. He loves this country with everything he has, but the winters just might kill him.  

If Washington has any complaints about the cold after a childhood spent in the south, he keeps them to himself, so Alex bites his tongue against any commentary. Washington’s broad frame blocks most of the wind, anyway, and if Alex keeps up with his long stride, he’s spared the worst of it. 

Alex pauses for a moment as they approach the door, expecting to follow Washington in. There’s a quiet, amused sound, and then a gentle pressure between his shoulder blades steers him forward and out of the cold, a handful of steps before Washington. 

The warmth hits him first, a swell of heat moving over his skin and sending a shiver through him. Then, the light. Alex resolutely does not gape as he enters the lobby, but he does pause, crowd diverting and weaving back together around him, the white noise of a hundred conversations breaking over him like an ocean swell. 

Alex allows himself one moment to take it in, to indulge the wide-eyed part of himself that’s been chasing rooms like this, opportunities like this, since he was too young to understand the improbability of it all. 

One moment to glut himself on the glittering chandeliers and the high vaulted ceilings and the bubbling crowd of expensive suits he can’t have yet, then he turns it off, smothers that part of himself into silence. Steps aside to let the crowd pass, rearranges his expression into something more coolly admiring. 

Even still, he catches Washington smiling down at him briefly, an amused quirk of his lips, a spark of something warm in his dark eyes that passes almost too quickly to catch. 

Alex glances away, caught as he so often is these days, between affront at being laughed at and some writhing, shame-warm feeling at bringing a rare smile to Washington’s face. 

“Alright,” Alex allows, trailing his gaze along a series of paintings on the far wall before glancing back. “I’m suitably impressed.” 

“I’m glad,” Washington says, and the smile is still in his voice as he unties his scarf. The fabric loosens and falls away, revealing the strong line of his neck. “I wasn’t sure if it would be quite your style -- I know it’s a bit much.” 

Washington sweeps his gaze around the room with an easy familiarity that somehow doesn’t twist his words into condescension, even though it’s so painfully clear that he belongs here. 

The room could have been built up around him -- cufflinks catching the chandelier’s shine with near mathematical precision, the dark leather of his shoes contrasting perfectly with the pale tile underfoot. 

Alex doesn’t fidget with his own clothes, knows there’s no better way to look like an imposter in this room of easy, practiced confidence, but it’s a near thing. Hercules gave him the all-clear before he left the apartment but Alex figures it would be just his luck to have fucked up his outfit somehow between there and here, just his luck for Washington to notice.

“Chalk it up to novelty,” Alex says dryly, because  _ it’s beautiful  _ or  _ I used to dream about parties like this  _ both sound starstruck and infantile, peeling back a layer of skin and sitting somewhere he can’t let Washington see, can’t let himself look at too hard. 

Until Washington hired him, he spent his time working twice as hard as anyone around him and getting nowhere, thanks to his utter lack of history or connection in America. Now that he’s here -- he worked for it, he knows that, but he can’t help but hate himself a little for how badly he wanted it. How badly he  _ still  _ wants it, even knowing it’s all three parts nepotism and one part luck.

Alex stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the intricate moulding while he settles his thoughts. “It’s a nice change of scenery from the office.” 

His section of it, at least -- he has a special fondness for Washington’s office, its wide windows and cityscape view, the way he can look out at the lights once the sun goes down, both of them working at Washington’s desk with the rest of his staff gone home.

Washington hums in knowing agreement. “There are worse places to spend an evening,” he agrees, though his gaze is calculating as he stares out at the crowd. Alex wonders what he’s seeing -- names, families, addresses, net worths? Alex recognizes a few faces, but not nearly enough. The dearth of knowledge makes him uneasy -- he’ll have to depend on Washington’s cues... not exactly showcasing his indispensability the way he’d hoped to. 

They head to the coat check, Washington carving out his own space with enviable ease, maneuvering through the steadily swelling crowd. Though he’s taller and broader than most, Alex doesn’t see him so much as brush someone’s shoulder as he moves past. 

Difficult not to feel like a child following in his wake, small and clumsy, ill-equipped and out of place, playing dress-up in unfamiliar clothes. Clothes Alex didn’t even  _ own  _ before he got this job, could only dream of owning, meanwhile Washington’s fucking tie probably cost more than the whole ensemble.  

Alex reminds himself to breathe around the hot flush of envy as he hands his coat over to the attendant, a guy around his age who glances between him and Washington with curiosity. Alex loosens the too-tight clench of his jaw, tries to remember that he’s grateful to be here, that he’s  _ special  _ for being here. Boxes away the part of himself that wants to be back at the office, where Washington is made up of the same elements as he is -- too many cups of coffee, heavy eyes, rolled-up shirt cuffs and cramping fingers. 

Washington’s hands bother him more, especially when the temperature drops, and he’ll press his thumb down hard on the knuckles of his opposite hand as if he can push and pull his own bones back into working order --

Washington adjusts his cuff as they head further into the lobby, and Alex wonders, a little guilty, if he hurts now. It’s hard to picture this man as anything other than comfortable in his own skin, but it’s a cold night, and he didn’t put his gloves back on when he got out of his car. 

Reminding him would imply that Alex paid enough attention to Washington’s aches to know which environment brought on what, or at the very least, that he was spending an inordinate amount of time watching his boss’ hands. 

Alex breathes, cuts that thought off before it can metastasize, and tries to straighten up without seeming to -- impossible to look particularly imposing beside Washington’s six feet and change, and to look like he’s trying in vain would be even worse. 

As he shifts, he catches sight of Burr on the opposite end of the room, listening intently to some conversation with a polite, close-lipped smile. They lock eyes for a moment and Burr nods at him, a short but visible movement. For a moment, Alex wishes their friendship was less rivalry -- he’s used to being on his own, but being in this place, surrounded by people who have no idea that he exists, is a new breed of loneliness. 

Even if Burr has more experience with gatherings like this, there’s a tenseness to how he holds himself now that makes Alex think he’s not all that much more comfortable here, that he might understand.

But Burr is still smarting from Washington hiring Alex instead of him, and Alex isn’t stupid enough to imagine he would be open to commiserating about being among the youngest, least influential people in the room. He’ll fit in out of sheer force of will, because that’s how he survives. 

Alex has only ever known how to make himself  _ seen --  _ it landed him here, in America and at Washington’s side. He can make it work in this room, too. 

Alex turns back to see Washington watching him curiously. It’s almost a soft look, understanding in that unnerving way Washington always manages, and a little at odds with the sharp suit and the sheer, imposing  _ size  _ he has in it -- long legs and broad shoulders, thighs that strain the fabric when he shifts his weight. 

Alex blinks, and his gaze skips to the side, his mind carefully, guiltily blank. A woman in a rose-colored dress is laughing at something her companion said, pearls snug and nearly glowing around her throat. She catches him staring and smiles, dark eyes glinting curiously. It’s easy to return the gesture, let a quick grin slide across his face, close enough to genuine.

She turns back to the girl beside her, swath of dark curls cascading over her bare shoulder. There’s a smile still tucked into the corner of her mouth. 

Washington clears his throat, and Alex snaps his attention back, doing his best not to wither under the knowing look Washington is levelling him with.

“Try not to get into it with Burr tonight, if you can,” Washington says, not unkindly. Alex isn’t nearly stupid enough to take that as a suggestion, though. 

Alex bites back a grimace and wonders, not for the first time, if Washington regrets his choice. Whoever Burr is here with definitely didn’t have to tell him anything similar. 

“I promise not to embarrass you, sir,” Alex says, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. He gives in to the twitch in his hand, smooths down the front of his suit jacket and fixes his tone when he speaks again, aims for levity. “I need to make a good impression too, you know. Everyone’s going to expect your charity case assistant to commit every faux-pas in the book.” 

A beat of silence. “You’re serious,” Washington says with something close to surprise, and when Alex looks up at him, his expression is severe. 

Alex can’t quite parse that look, anger or concern or maybe just tired confusion, but his default response to Washington’s wide range of displeased expressions is  _ fix it quick,  _ and he’s not sure how to accomplish that, here. He flounders for a moment, having expected an amused huff or an exasperated side-eye, and forces a short laugh while he reorients himself. 

“Yes? It’s fine, I’ve got it handled. I had a lot of practice proving myself to entitled assholes at Columbia.” College saw him newly immigrated with his entire life in the same battered suitcase he had since he was twelve -- too young, too scrawny, too fucking  _ loud,  _ and fast-tracking as quickly as he could before his scholarship ran out. He would have been eaten alive before sophomore year if he wasn’t fucking  _ awesome _ at playing this game. 

Washington’s brows knit together disapprovingly, and Alex belatedly realizes he should have used some fucking _tact_ before shittalking potential backers. Surprisingly unpretentious or not, Washington is part of this world. These are his people, they fund his campaigns, they’re his friends and colleagues. Alex braces for admonishment, ignoring the hot shame curdling in his stomach \-- at enduring it _now,_ in front of everyone -- familiar like a childhood friend. 

_ Knock it off.  _

He’s a grown man, he can take a lecture. It won’t be the first he’s endured at Washington’s hand and it damn well won’t be the last -- but he can’t fight back in public, an underhanded bit of humiliation that he didn’t think was Washington's style. 

“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought you couldn’t handle it,” Washington says, something almost offended in his voice. “More importantly, if anyone gives you trouble, I’d like to know.”

Anxiety gives way to relief, and then sours abruptly. Maybe it’s the guilt, a smarting recoil at assuming the worst from the man who’s done everything to help him. Maybe it’s disappointment, at being wrong  _ again,  _ at never knowing where he stands with this man.  

The paternal concern in Washington’s gaze is somehow worse than a dressing-down would be -- he would call Alex out if he thought they were equals, cut him one of his truly impressive glares and rake him over the coals for it on Monday like he  _ has  _ done. But now he’s seen Alex go wide-eyed and dumbstruck over a place Washington has been a thousand times, in a thousand iterations, and he must think… 

Alex  _ knows  _ Washington has had his decision to hire him second-guessed a half-dozen times since he made it -- too young, no connections to speak of, smart but there’s a million smart, eager twenty-somethings out there so  _ why him.  _

In moments like this, Alex can only think the answer has to be pity.  

For the sake of professionalism, Alex smiles, closed and tight-lipped. “I appreciate the concern, sir, but no one is going to say anything while you’re with me.” 

Washington’s frown deepens, unassuaged. “Still.” 

Alex barely holds back a scoff, shifting his gaze to the sparkling chandelier overhead. “Right. Because running to my boss to whine about someone making fun of me is going to work _wonders_ for my professional image.” Quiet, then. The white noise of the party suddenly grows distant. Alex presses his teeth together hard, but it’s too late, he’s already run his mouth again after _just_ getting lucky. Fuck. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean --”

“It’s fine.” But Alex feels Washington tense up beside him, hears him exhale quietly in that specific way only Alex ever seems to draw from him. “I’ll leave it to your discretion,” he says, which only turns Alex’s guilt to lead in his gut, thick and heavy. 

When Alex looks back at him, his expression is so thoroughly exhausted that Alex almost regrets opening his mouth to begin with. It’s going to be a long night, and the last thing Washington needs is to deal with Alex’s bullshit before spending endless hours making careful, pointless conversation with people he doesn’t like or trust. 

The moment passes -- stilted and unpleasant, but it passes. It usually does, between them, which… is something, maybe. It’s something, that Washington hasn’t tossed him out on his ass yet, after more fuck-ups and arguments than Alex really thinks he deserves absolution for. Alex swallows down the second apology that bleeds into his mouth, and when he can meet Washington’s steady gaze again, Washington’s face is clear -- masked in that unreadable way he sometimes adopts, but clear.   

“I can do this,” Alex says. He can be charming, he can sidestep conversational landmines instead of triggering them, he can be a fucking  _ asset.  _ He can’t have Washington second-guessing that  _ now,  _ not when he took the risk of letting Alex be here tonight. 

Washington’s expression softens, brows drawing together. “I don’t doubt that for a moment, son.” He settles a hand on Alex’s shoulder, squeezing once, surprisingly gentle despite the weight of his touch. 

Alex’s stomach lurches.  _ Not here, anywhere but here.  _ People are looking, which has probably been happening all night, but Alex is hyper-aware of it now, hates it because he knows his body must be betraying him in dozens of little ticks he can’t begin to control. 

Small comfort that they’re not looking at Alex, at least not directly. Washington draws attention like his own personal planetary orbit, a combination of physical presence and aura that Alex can’t blame onlookers for being drawn in by. But more often than not lately, Alex happens to be caught in the glow. He  _ does not want  _ that castoff from the spotlight right now, not when it means being pinned by that penetrating gaze in public. 

Alex averts his eyes and side-steps Washington’s touch under the guise of turning to the now-open door to the hall. Distantly, before he shuts the thought away somewhere it can’t hurt him, Alex notes that Washington’s hand was warm, despite the chill. 

Before he can muffle his brain completely, a thought -- Washington’s cologne is thick in his nose, spiced and warm and almost obnoxiously potent. Abruptly, Alex wishes for the sharp, cold air outside. At least he could breathe around it.

“Should we head inside, sir?” 

Washington’s hand falls back to his side, fingers curling briefly as he nods. 

He doesn’t straighten his spine, or adjust his clothes, doesn’t need to do either of those things, but there’s an unmistakable change in him, a switch flipped as he goes from Alex’s employer to someone he would only ever expect to see in TV soundbites and news articles -- irreproachable and untouchable. 

Not for the first time, Alex is reminded that while this may be his job, it’s Washington’s entire  _ life,  _ has been for probably as long as Alex has been alive _.  _ Alex suddenly feels woefully unprepared even to just follow this man around for an evening. It’s a disorienting place to be, giving credence to his own gnawing doubts about how worthy he really is to stand here. 

He’s not even sure where  _ here  _ is -- this room, or at Washington’s side, and either option is nauseating to think about for too long. 

A glint of light draws his attention -- Washington’s wristwatch, shifting to catch the light as he rotates his wrist. It’s a small movement, nondescript, but Washington’s face tightens briefly with discomfort, fine lines creasing around his eyes. Washington catches his eye and smiles wryly, carefully prepared persona receding for a moment. Somehow, the slip doesn’t do much to ease the potent, corrosive awe-envy sitting heavy in Alex’s gut. 

“Try to have some fun,” Washington reminds him. “It’s a party, after all. It doesn’t all have to be work.”  _ For you,  _ goes unsaid, Washington still tightly controlled and ever aware of the eyes on him. On  _ them,  _ now, which is thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. 

Alex thinks of all the nights out with friends he’s begged off to get work done for this man and wants to laugh, or maybe scream.  _ Fun  _ is nowhere on his radar tonight -- Washington’s flawless reputation lies heavy on his shoulders, a responsibility Alex is struggling not to choke himself with even while on his best behavior. 

Alex smiles thinly. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Washington smiles at that, a rueful flash of perfect teeth as he shakes his head, passing into the hall like he expects the whole room will open up for him.  

Alex holds back for a step, watches as it does just that. 

**Author's Note:**

> *It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Whamilton writer in possession of an AO3, must be in want of a Modern!AU. For anyone that read the first two installments of encore and wasn't sure where it was going -- surprise?  
> *I'm sometimes on Tumblr at [icarusandtheson](https://icarusandtheson.tumblr.com/), more often lurking in the comment section here


End file.
